The Fulfillment of Herve Villechaize

"hey boss," the beloved tattoo

In its summation of Hollywood’s dwarf suicides, Fox News fails to mention that Villechaize was an accomplished painter, which makes his suicide all the more poignant against Troyer’s undercurrent of lewdest denominators, $5000 sex tapes indeed to private collectors who vanish down the rabbit hole to Alice’s wonderland, snorting powder highs on a mirror, a frustration lunging to that old florid refrain, I just wanna make love to you, love to you, which somehow captures the rhythmic movements of a 69 in exploration of itself, knives and coitus ache in the nearly dried flower of an old woman’s cunt, and if I truly believe in what I stand for, either eliminate the problem or force the damn issue, little spears of saline running their course, no matter how magnanimous, he doesn’t want me, and this gives progressives a first down at the fifty yard line, when it comes to pursuit in the travesty of the pursuer whose lewd jibes and body contact are so cute, the color of skin doesn’t matter when the needs awakened against male virility won’t go away, in the cycle of a spastic life skirting the edge of a fetish as lost financial opportunity. As with anything, Dinklage is the standard of midget success, full rugged face echoes enough physically normal appearance, lends itself to the stardom of an all together man, married, and thus, an adept mimic. The pain of Villechaize, if otherwise unable to be entered, corresponds to the swollen feet of soon to be coming summer. “Leave me alone,” I told him in my minute down swell, and meant it, though his lion’s heart cannot stifle the impetus of consolation. He devastated by the Cosby verdict, me less so after an odd 36 months of reading  over the icon’s cratered avalanche, dealing with, and losing one of his accusers, Joan Tarshis, if I step back, as a traumatized woman in her own right, it isn’t about picking a victor so much as the inadequacy against years of silence. I may not know the truth, but I do know about the consequence of a woman foolhardy enough to be alone with a man in such a context, particularly in 1969, more about regret than love? I did not see a judicial process which secured justice in the Cosby trial, I saw a rubber stamp to placate women’s pain, and at the heart of the matter, the throb in the vibrating vein in my chest cage is simply riled because it cries, this is what it feels like when it’s right. I cannot change that as an absence I’ve had to bear through life even with the burden of Frank Versante on my back. I never had right, and had I been better focused in 16, I suppose I wouldn’t be juggling this now, would I? I told them I wanted a man, in unwitting folly, due to whatever trigger, I’ve fallen, moaning on my soul, as if I don’t have enough to reassemble, still over and above the turgid bellow of Mini-Me, a mere caricature of evil. The dowager flirted herself as the real thing, little realizing plow horses can slay dragons.